Chain Gang
by Quoin
Summary: Faith and Bosco walk in on an armed robbery with disastrous consequences, while Ty and Sulley track down a missing person.
1. Missing

Chain Gang

Wrote this towards the end of Season 5—saw Fred and Mikey coming, but not the Donald Mann revenge plot, so this assumes Mikey was just buried quietly, without the drive-in funeral home or bombings.

"Every man is a mob, a chain gang of idiots."—_Memento Mori_, Jonathon Nolan.

Missing

"So he's been missing three days, and you have _no_ idea where he might have gone? None at all?" Ty sounded sceptical, talking to the mother while the two of them took a look about the kid's room.

"Well _no_—he comes straight home from school and studies all evening."

"_All_ evening?" Sully caught the raised eyebrows from his partner and the look that said, _that doesn't sound right_. "What about weekends?" They were drawing blanks at everything except that the kid was a freak—a seventeen-year-old with a spotless bedroom? That ought to set alarm bells ringing in anyone's head.

"Didn't you study when you were in high school?" she challenged—go_ing at this from opposite ends of the world_, Sully thought—the kid's sock drawer could probably tell them more about him that the mother—_then again_…he shook his head at the clothes pressed and hanging in the wardrobe or neatly folded in drawers. Nothing obviously missing—it didn't _look_ like he'd run away—at least, not unless he'd thought to tidy up after himself to cover his tracks.

"He doesn't have any friends he might be staying with, or family?" Ty suggested, and drew another blank. Nothing on the wall planner except assignment dates—_did this kid not have a life _at all—and nothing to suggest he was up against a deadline he couldn't meet. The desk was something else, though—practically lifted out of a stationer's shop window.

"Is this _normal_—" Sully couldn't keep himself from asking, "For him to have his desk so tidy?" _Maybe he'd planned this—maybe he knew he was going away and wanted to leave the place in order? Yeah_—he scoffed—_or maybe the kid just takes after his mother_; the rest of the house was a good clue to where he'd picked up the anal-retentiveness. And her look—the kind of put-down parents save for their misbehaving kids—that said, _of course_, like he'd known it all along and was asking her just to be wilful.

To Ty she said, "He's so busy studying, he doesn't have time for friends—and the other boys in his class aren't really up to his calibre," and drew a snort from Sully, looking at the perfectly made bed…and he lifted the mattress on a whim—the cynic in him wanting to destroy the mother's perfect image of her son by finding a dirty magazine after her last—

"Hello."

"How long's Simon been smoking weed, Mrs Lockyer?"

She looked at them like she didn't understand the question, a shaky, "I don't know what you're talking about…" her face—a shade paler than it had been—all but saying, _don't say things like that_—and then it hardened and she glared at Ty; "My son's missing, and all you can do is make accusations?"

"We're going to need a picture," Sully stepped in—time to be leaving anyway; they weren't exactly getting anywhere talking to the mother.

"Can you believe that woman? _Up to his calibre_—" Ty shook his head outside, crossing the street back to the car. "The kid sounds like a real stiff to me."

"Oh c'mon—bet you were the class swot too," Sul laughed, and got a glare—_get out of it_—that softened into _well okay, what if I was?_

"I had friends, you know—and you can talk, Mr LSAT-ace—"

"But I'm not seventeen and gone AWOL."

"No," Ty conceded the point. Then, "There's no way a kid's that perfect."

"He wasn't," meaning the Weed, and Ty frowned.

"D'you believe her?" his face saying, _that she really has no idea—about the Weed, or where he's gone?_

"I don't know," Sully paused at the driver's door, then shrugged and climbed in. "But a mother like that? _I'd_ run away."

"So where to?" Ty asked. _Nine million people and we're looking for one of them—where the hell do we start?_

"There was a sweater from the Downside Wharf in his wardrobe—maybe he's a member?"

From Ty, a distracted, "Yeah, maybe," as they pulled away, watching the house through the window like he was still thinking, _can you believe that woman?_

"Got to start looking somewhere, I guess."


	2. The Longest Shift

The Longest Shift

"10-4 Central," Faith acknowledged, one hand on the wheel, catching Bosco's look and scowling for it as she checked her mirrors to pull across to the inside lane.

"No _way_—Gospel Jones, _again_?"

She sighed—as if _anybody_ liked moving on a habitual ass like Gospel Jones, but that was Bosco all over—letting the world know just in case they hadn't already figured.

"Do me a favour, will you?" she said, waiting to turn at the lights. "At least try and _pretend_ like you want to be here today?"

"What?" his face all but said, _where did _that_ come from?_

"You've been fidgety as hell with nothing to do—and now we _get_ a job, you don't want it?" she looked over as she pulled up, but couldn't read his expression—it was too much to hope his lack of come back meant he'd taken to sulking quietly—it'd been hard work getting a handle on him recently.

Jones was in full flow as they got out, raining down hellfire and brimstone on anyone that didn't conform. _Whatever happened to love thy neighbour?_

"The time of Judgement is upon us, people!" he proclaimed—and had the cheek to smile and nod in their direction as they walked over. _He's enjoying this_, she smiled through clenched teeth right back at him. Bosco was less tolerant—a scowled, "Damn right it is," looking like _he_ was the one about to do the judging if Jones wasn't too careful. Catching Faith's glare to behave, he riled, "Are you kidding me?" and Jones put the boot in:

"Satan walks amongst us!"

There was no denying where he was looking—with Bosco's short fuse it wasn't surprising he and Jones weren't exactly friends. _The son of a bitch is enjoying this_. She levelled Bosco with a warning—_don't do this_—and he backed off.

_Wonders will never cease_.

She frowned at his back, turned away like he had some interest in the electrical shop's window display. Jones kept right on with his hell-and-damnation routine, but while Bosco shook his head with that smile on his face that came as a warning light for DEFCON Three, he didn't do anything stupid—at least not before she wrestled control of the situation from Jones and put him down.

"I'll be praying for your soul, Officer," Jones threw towards Bosco, dispite Faith's attempt to block her partner from his line of sight—one ass was enough to deal with at a time; if these two got going at each other—she didn't want to think about what it would do to her blood pressure. "You should pray for him too—" somehow she didn't think prayer would be enough, but didn't say it. "You do pray, don't you?"

"Oh yeah, I pray, alright—for the patience to deal with _you_."

Gospel Jones was like a dance the 55 did, week in, week out, moving the guy on from one street corner where he harassed the non-believers to the next. "How many times we gotta do this before you learn?" she shot a warning, "Don't say it, Bosco—" towards the electrical shop, "And you—you can shut up too, unless you're wanting to tell me how you're gonna quit wasting my time—now get lost."

Jones knew his part well enough, and moved along, taking Faith's parting, "If you're back here again, so help me, you'll be spending the night in lockup—" without even a glance over his shoulder.

"Jeez, that guy," she shook her head, back in the car and stopped at the lights a few blocks down.

"What guy?"

"Gospel Jones, who el—" she stopped short, realising Bosco wasn't listening. _Ships passing in the night, I swear_, she shook her head, looking over at him a couple of times before giving up on the idea of conversation entirely.

Then Bosco came out with, "When they gonna do something about that Gospel Jones?" like she'd said nothing at all.

_Give me patience_, she thought, but didn't say it—venturing instead, "How's your mother doing?" and he blew her out of the water.

"Can we not talk about Mikey?" turning to look out the passenger window to end the conversation. She let it go, scowling to herself for non-starters like, "So hey, Bosco—Fred left me the other night—how was your weekend?" just wanting to talk about something—_anything_; there was enough silence back in her apartment. Having said nothing at the time—it'd hardly seemed fair—made it feel like the hardest thing to work into a conversation now.

"Look at those two idiots over there—" Bosco, oblivious as ever, was watching a couple of SUVs fighting for a space up ahead on the opposite side of the street. "Pull over, will you?"

"What?" _No way—are you kidding?_

"Pull over."

"You want to give them a ticket?" Charlie wasn't as hard work as this.

He got out of the car as soon as she'd pulled up in answer, leaving Faith to follow reluctantly, muttering, "I swear, Bosco—" The driver in the Ford wasn't too impressed either.

"Haven't you got anything _better_ to be doing?" as Bosco slapped him with the citation. Faith shot him a caustic, "I dunno—_haven't_ we?" and bit back an exasperated, _give me patience_, at his, "What?"

It was going to be a long shift.


	3. Downside Wharf

Downside Wharf

Sullivan pushed his way through the crowd loitering at what passed for the front desk. The Wharf had been a warehouse a long time back, derelict for years before some social housing scheme had fashioned a youth club out of its shell. But the area had never really turned around; the inside looked about as tired as the outside these days, and was needed more than ever.

"What's up, my man?" the kid on the desk—pushing early twenties if he was lucky—raised him. Ty exchanged a, "Hey," pulling in beside, but Sully only scowled—the distrust and suspicion coming off every other kid in the building for his uniform made this kid's smile feel like a joke at their expense.

"We're looking for Simon Lockyer—you seen him around today?" and at the frown, added shortly, "Seventeen, 5'9, blond—lives on Raleigh."

"Bit of a stiff," Ty put in, but the kid just shrugged.

"What are you, new?" Sully didn't bother to hide his scepticism. "He's got your sweater in his wardrobe—you must've seen him hanging around—"

"Hey listen," the kid cut in, resenting the implications. "Lot of kids got that sweater, don't mean nothing. Lot of kids come here—don't mean I know who they are, where they're at. I'm not their keeper, right? That's why they come."

Ty waded in, ever the diplomat, shrugging, "It was a long shot anyway," something of a hint they should leave before there was trouble, all but pushing his partner towards the exit. In the doorway, Sully turned, fishing the photograph from his pocket on the off-chance—"What about him? You seen this kid hanging round?"

"What, Kev? Sure—I know Kev," the kid frowned, pushing the picture back across the counter. Now Sully was _sure_ the kid was yanking him—and scowled that he was being so damn nice about it all so he hadn't reason to snap at him for it.

"Kev" Ty asked deliberately.

"Yeah—Kevin…Kevin—" Looked like he was fishing for a surname he couldn't find, and shrugged it away, figuring he must never have known it. "What d'you want with him? He got beef with that Locker kid you're on about?" _Now you _are_ doing this to piss me off_, Sully scowled—did the kid think he was that stupid he'd fall for it?

"_Kevin_—you're sure about that?" Ty pressed him, and the kid looked equally confused.

"Kid like _that_—you bet I'm sure." At the look on Sully's face, he shrugged, "Don't play well with others."

"Figures," Ty muttered, like he was thinking _can you believe that woman?_ all over again.

The kid on the desk seemed to take it like an insult—"Kev's got some heavy shit going on, okay?" his expression saying, _that I _don't_ mind_. "But he don't leave it behind on the bench—takes it onto the court, don't he? Been on suspension longer than he's been on the team."

"He's violent?" Sully frowned, and caught the kid out—nodding, before a sudden, worried, "What d'you want him for? He gone and done something stupid?"

Ty shook his head. "We're just looking for him, is all. When d'you last see him?"

The kid hesitated before answering—shrugged, "A week ago? Not sure—he comes and goes, they all do." Sul couldn't be sure if he was being straight or not, but Ty seemed to believe him, asking, "You'll let us know if you see him?" and the kid nodded—"Or this Locker kid, right?"

Sully barked a _right_, laugh—thinking _how…?_ Could the kid be telling the truth after all—genuinely not know Simon Lockyer was the kid he'd just ID'd as Kevin? He shook his head, following Ty towards the door.

"Oh hey—" the kid called after them, like he'd just remembered something but wasn't sure he should admit to it. "He left a number one time—I mean, if all you're doing is looking for him…"

"He's not in any trouble," Ty assured him, scowling at Sully's, "Not yet, anyway." "His mother's reported him missing." At that the kid seemed decided, searching about behind the desk for something, ducking out from behind the counter to hand over a scrap of paper.

"Don't know if it's still good," he shrugged. "Goes back a few months—said I could catch him there sometime if I needed, think it might be his work, or something—I don't really know…"

"Thanks, man," Ty said—then outside, "No way are they the same kid," leaving unsaid, _unless the mother's got something she'd not been telling us._

"What, like a twin bother she failed to mention?" Sully shook his head—more likely the mother just didn't know her son, or chose not to. He shrugged, "Maybe she's trying to protect him."

"From what? Sounds like that kid doesn't _need_ protecting—" and reading the look on Sully's face, "You think he's beating up on her or something?" He didn't buy it, "No way—you heard her, she loves that kid." His expression said, _maybe she doesn't _know_ him, but she wasn't _afraid_ of him_.

"Well then maybe it's the Weed," Sul shrugged, "Or maybe she just has no idea—I don't know."

Ty shook his head, getting in the car. "There's something screwy going on here. I mean—" he looked over at Sully as he pulled the door shut. "Maybe the mother doesn't know what he gets up to—but you'd think his friends'd know something about him, right? They don't even know his name—and a kid, right? Missing, and nobody's even noticed he's gone? Even his mother took three days to call it in. There's something not right here."

Sul shrugged, looking at the scrawled note—a local area number, nothing else; no name, no address—wasn't much of a lead. _What the hell_, he thought, calling in on his radio.

"Go ahead, Charlie."

"Can we have an address on the phone number—" and read from the paper.


	4. Fruitcake

Fruitcake

"What's with these people?" Bosco leant on the horn, craning out the window to get a look at what was causing the hold up.

"There's an old lady up ahead," Faith had a better view from the passenger side.

"Jaywalking?" a look at Faith, "Oh come on—you're kidding me—" before leaning back out the window to shout at the moron up ahead.

"Don't think she's jaywalking—" she frowned. "Looks kind of lost."

Bosco scowled, reading the tone of her voice. "What? Are we a tourist information service?"

"Add it to _parking attendant_. Pull over."

"You still on about that?" he called after her, leaning on the roof as he shut the driver's door, like he was hoping she'd change her mind and get back in the car. He followed reluctantly.

Trying to catch the old lady's attention was almost as hard as dodging traffic to join her in the middle of the intersection.

"Ma'am? Ma'am—" Faith had to shout over the horns and abuse yelled through opened windows by passing drivers, more than a little uneasy for the traffic coming at them from all directions. The lady didn't seem to care—pacing around, turning about like she'd lost something—or some_one_—and was looking for them. "Ma'am?" Faith took the lady by the shoulders, turning her to force the conversation onto her. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

"She's in the middle of an intersection in a nightdress, Faith," Bosco put in; "I'd say chances are, she's not okay," looking like he just wanted this one over with quickly.

"Ma'am—you can't be here, it's dangerous. C'mon, lets—"

"No—" she threw Faith off, putting her foot down like a petulant child. "No. I'm waiting for Robert. He'll be here any minute."

"Ma'am—you're in the middle of an intersection—"

Bosco had been hanging back; fruitcake old ladies—probably incontinent to boot—were not why he'd signed up for this gig. It'd been Faith's call, her hassle to sort out, he didn't want to get involved—but she was doing her _do as I say, I'm a Police Officer_ routine again, and it wasn't working—granny was probably so far gone she didn't know what a cop was anymore. Far as he was concerned the lady could stay—so long as she didn't walk under a bus or something and make paperwork out of it—he was happy for her to wait wherever the hell she wanted. He sighed; Faith wasn't seeing it that way at all, and ten years experience told him the quickest way out of this was going to be moving granny along.

"Why don't you come wait over here with me?" he fixed a smile on his face, coaxing her towards the sidewalk.

"Robert? Is that you, Robert?" she shoved her face in his, craning her neck and squinting to see with terrible eyesight—Bosco did his best to back away from her attempts to kiss him, unable to untangle himself from her bony embrace. _At least she's moving off the intersection_, he thought on some level, distracted by having to work so hard to keep his dignity intact and distance from her. "Is that any way to treat your Momma?"

"I'm not—" but she wouldn't hear it.

"You're late, Robert—I've been so worried. I thought you weren't coming—are you eating? You look thin—" she fussed. Deaf as well as half-blind and terminally stupid, for the volume she spoke at. Faith couldn't smother her amusement, his expression a picture of desperation—turning to a _you're so funny_ scowl when she said, "I'll get the car, shall I, _Robert_? You wait here with Momma."

"What's that, Robert, dear?"

"She's gone to get the car, to take you home—" he shouted, then figured, _what the hell_—seeing something of his mother in her. "Where's you're coat, huh? You must be cold out here like this," he softened—thinking bleakly as he closed the passenger door on her vacant smile, was this waiting for him, on top of everything else he'd had to deal with from his family?

He looked over the car roof to Faith at the driver's door, "Now what?" his expression blaming her for the mess. "Where the hell do we take her? We'll be stuck with her all bloody night."

"Why don't you ask her where home is, _Robert_," she smirked, getting in. Bosco scowled at her amusement, muttering, "Why don't we just drop her on Amherst—it's not like she'll know any different. D'you think she even knows what day of the week it is?"

"So somebody's going to be missing her—family, neighbours, a Home."

Bosco looked convinced he'd been right not to want to get involved in this one at all.

"This better not take long. How about we swing by the Kwickmart at 121 and King when we're done—I could murder a cheeseburger."

He was still smirking when they pulled up an hour later, calling in to Central to book them off for their meal break. At the scowl on Faith's face, he said, "It was your own fault, wanting to pick up that fruitcake in the first place—" mocking the husband's words when they'd returned his errant wife, "Should I come down the station with you, _Officer_?" he pushed open the Kwickmart's door, "He was hot for _you_," laughing at Faith's _God, don't remind me _look as she followed him in.

"_How_ old was he? Like eighty or somethi—"

But she didn't get the chance to finish—smile dropping from Bosco's face as he reached for his gun. Faith had scarcely clocked the kid at the counter—already following her partner's lead from instinct—when the revolver discharged.

The flash and lick of flames from the barrel burnt her retina—the shot ringing out for an eternity—before time caught up with her again, and Bosco crashed to the floor.


	5. Confession Confusion

Confession/Confusion

"No way is this right," Ty said as they pulled up.

"413, right?" Sully craned his neck out the window looking for building numbers.

"Yeah—but a _church_? After what that kid at Downside was saying about him?"

Sully shrugged, closing the car door and following him across the street. Inside was dark—dimly lit by flickering candles and what light crept through filthy city windows. Ty pulled off his hat a little self-consciously, looking about for signs of life, while Sully's gaze was drawn to the Altar, and thoughts of Tatiana's Mass.

"Hello?" The voice broke in on his distraction, clattering down the spiral stairs from the gallery. "Can I help you, Officers?"

"We're looking for a kid," Sully marshalled his thoughts; "Left your number as a contact at Downside Wharf," holding out the scrap of paper. The priest took it, flipping up his glasses to peer at it, leaning towards the candlelight.

"Doe this child have a name?" he looked up again, apparently satisfied, handing the note back.

"Kevin."

"No, I don't believe I know a Kevin—how old is he?"

"Seventeen; lives on Raleigh."

The priest shook his head. "I'm sorry—I wish I could help you." Then a frown, "You say he gave this number as a contact for him?" At the nod, "Now that is strange, don't you think?" _No more so than the rest of today_, Sully thought. "Unless I'm getting old—no, there's a _Calvin_ in the choir, quite remarkable voice, but no Kevin that I can think of…I'm sorry—there must have been some sort of a mix-up over the number. Is he in trouble? Is there anything I could do to help?"

Sully looked over at his partner, all but saying, _was your kid at the Wharf messing me?_

From Ty to the priest, "What about Simon Lockyer?"

"I'm afraid it's not your day," he smiled apologetically.

"How about this kid—you seen him before?" Sul asked with an air of resignation, pulling out the photo. The priest took it, squinting all over again before nodding, "Oliver."

"_Oliver_?" Ty laughed—drawing a look of reprimand from the priest, handing it back to Sully, asking,

"Is he involved with these other boys you've mentioned?" and Ty looked away, his expression all but saying, _I don't believe this is happening_.

But before either could answer, a look of dawning comprehension came over the priest's face, "You know—I think he mentioned a Simon and a Kevin to me once—" This time it was Sully who barked a laugh, _don't you go yanking me over this, Father_.

"I'm not sure how much I should say—" the priest looked about nervously, "He comes to Confession, you understand—"

Ty jumped in quickly to reassure him; "He's been missing since Friday—anything you can tell us that might help us to find him…" but it was still a moment—and a glance towards the Altar like he might have been asking permission—before he admitted, "I think…I think the boy was in some kind of trouble—serious trouble, maybe."

"Oliver?"

A nod, "He would never tell me what…" Then in defence, "I—I don't think it was his _fault_—he was forced into things somehow—I…that Kevin you spoke of? I think he was a bad influence."

"Kevin?" Sully didn't even try to hide the scepticism in his voice—the priest seemed to mistake it for, _Kevin would never do that_, and hit back with the dark admission, "Oliver was here last Thursday—late—panicked about something, he looked terrified. All he would say was 'Kevin told me to do it. Kevin _made_ me do it.' He wouldn't tell me what—"

"Father, have you ever _met_ Kevin…?" From Ty—like, _this really makes no sense to me now_.

A frowned, "No—but I understand he's…shall we say, _undesirable_ company, from what Oliver has told me—violent even."

"Yeah—we've heard," Sul shook his head, no _idea_ where to start point fingers for messing them about now.

Catching something in their expressions, the priest ventured, "I…is there something I should know?"

"This picture?" Sully pulled it from his pocket again. "We were given that by the mother of _Simon _Lockyer this afternoon—we went down to the social and nobody'd heard of him—show the picture and they say, '_Kev_? Sure, I know Kev—you can catch him on _this_ number,'—" he jabbed at the floor with his finger on _this_; "We come here, and you tell us this kid—" waving the picture again, "Is called _Oliver_, and Simon and Kevin are _friends of his_ that tell him what to do and get him into trouble?" He levelled the priest, "I don't know—is there something _you_ should be telling _us_?"

"I…I don't know what to say, Officers, I'm sorry." The worst of it was the guy sounded genuinely sorry he couldn't be of more help. Sully scowled. "All I can tell you is he's talked about a Simon and a Kevin before—maybe they're not the same boys you're talking about, I really don't know."

"Did I miss something back there?" Sul asked, out on the steps, not hiding his annoyance as he crossed the street. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I dunno," Ty shook his head, at a loss and looking like he'd be glad to be shot of this case. "Reckon I want to talk to that mother again, though," he said, climbing in.

"Shots fired at 121 and King," came in over the radio as Sully started up the car and pulled away. A block down, frowning that David hadn't picked up the shout, Ty looked over—his expression, _d'you wanna take it?_ meeting it's mirror on Sully's face—reaching for his radio when Central burst back in, "All units—10-13, witness reports officer down at 121 and King."

"55 Charlie, 121 and King," he said with more urgency, and a worried, "You don't think it's David, do you?" to his partner as Sully floored it.


	6. Standoff

Standoff

"Put the gun down!" Faith yelled. She had him levelled with her gun. The teenager's eyes were darting round the place—searching for a way out—Faith's only thought was for the thump of Bosco's head against the freezer cabinet as he'd fallen. "Put it down! Now!" The kid flinched at the ferocity in her voice—panicked eyes fixed on hers—but shook his head. "Put your gun _down_—" she said deliberately—forcing herself not to betray the panic a desperate glance over at Bosco had summoned. "Put it down!"

"No!" the kid yelled, shaking his head vigorously. "No way."

"Bosco, you okay?" she threw over her shoulder—not daring to turn away from the gun in her face— cursing herself for being such a lousy shot, hands shaking so much she couldn't risk taking the kid down with the shopkeeper right behind—frozen like a rabbit caught in headlights by the gunshot. Visions of her standoff with Cruz alternated with the look she'd got at Bosco, slumped against the freezer, hand to his chest. "Put your gun down!" The kid had shot Bosco in the chest—in the _chest_—he'd shot Bosco—"Talk to me, Bosco—" she begged, straining to hear that he was breathing—_he's gonna bleed to death on the floor of a lousy Kwickmart_—"Bosco—"

"Shut up!" the kid yelled. "Shut up!"

"Put your gun down—nobody wants to hurt you. Just put it _down_—"

"Shut up!" the kid screamed—grabbing the flinching shopkeeper by his shirtsleeve; "Drop the shutters—lock the door—_do_ it!" shoving him, waving the gun in his face. Faith seized the moment's distraction—but the kid caught her before she could even look towards her partner—cocking the revolver in a silent threat.

_Oh God, what do I do?_ she fought against the panic—clinging to the knowledge she had to stop the blood—if she could stop the bleeding , he'd have a chance—denying the truth that he hadn't a _hope_, gunshot to the chest—ready to cry for knowing even if a Bus pulled up right now…

"Bosco—talk to me, _please_—" trying desperately not to think about all the punks and kids and innocents she'd seen die on the streets and on the way to Mercy and not cared a damn about at the time—_I take it back—sweet Jesus, I take it all back—just don't let him die_…

The shutters crashed down. Everybody but the kid jumped—trapped.

"I'm gonna put my gun down, okay?" Faith said slowly, deliberately. "I'm gonna put my gun down—I'm not going to do anything to you—but you've shot my partner and I have to help him, okay?"

"Damn it, don't move! I'm warning you!"

"_Please_—just let me help my partner," there was a note of desperation in her voice, and it drew something—panic over what he'd done, perhaps—from the kid's face. He didn't stop her when she put her gun down, straightening slowly—agonisingly slowly—both hands showing, her face asking, _okay?_ He might have nodded—or maybe he just didn't shoot; Faith wasn't paying him enough attention to find out.

"Bosco? You okay? Talk to me." He was conscious, at least—though white-faced, shallow breaths catching like it hurt too much to want to breathe. She pulled his hand away, looking for the wound.

"'m okay—" he managed—he didn't sound convinced—but his hand had come away unbloodied. He stared at it a little dumbly, afraid he was so far gone he was missing something. Faith was searching for an entry wound—shaking hands wrestling with the zip of his jacket—then froze at the hole clean through his shirt over his heart. Bosco stared dumbly at his hand, some rational part of him wondering where the hell all the blood had got to—knowing he was in serious trouble—but it was like the guy next to him had been shot; no panic, just a surreal distance to his thinking—he was in _serious_ trouble.

"It's okay—" it was something between tears and laughter—relief—and it made no since to him at all. "You're okay—you're okay, Bosco." And then she laughed; "Your vest—you're not even bleeding." Between the pounding in his head and something close to agony in his chest, he wasn't seeing much funny in anything—he could hardly _see_ straight at all—blinking furiously, looking for the blood—there had to be blood—it had to be there—trying to push himself up to find it.

He didn't need Faith's persuasion to give that up—the way he could hardly catch his breath for the pain was more than enough. "Easy—you probably busted a couple of ribs or something," she said, unnecessarily. He could feel the shell casing embedded in his bulletproof vest. He couldn't believe it. Shot in the chest and he was going to walk away from it…

"Right—he's okay—now get over there," the kid grabbed Faith's jacket, pointing with the revolver—if he could have, Bosco would have slugged the kid for it—as it was, all he could do was scowl as the teenager manhandled his partner—spying his gun out of reach, on the floor where it had clattered to as he'd fallen. "Move!" the kid pushed her, but Faith stood her ground, staring him down. "Sit down over there—" he threatened, but betrayed himself with a nervous, "And it'll be fine," like he was still trying to convince himself of that.

Bosco scoffed—_kids that stupid should not be allowed guns—_"It's only _attempted_ murder of a Police Officer."

"Hey—no way—I ain't no murderer—I—" the kid insisted, then turned away, talking in a panicked undertone. "_Christ_—look what you've gone and done—we're in some real pretty shit now—_no_, I'm not gonna—you can't make me—I won't _do_ it, man—" Faith couldn't follow—it was like listening in on a phone call, only hearing half the conversation—like the kid was arguing with someone, only there _was_ nobody … Then he levelled her with a pathetic look to his face, "I didn't mean to—it wasn't s'posed to be loaded—I didn't—"

Bosco wasn't having any of it. "You _shot_ me!" But Faith stilled him with a hand—the kid already turned back to himself, agitated, but she couldn't make out words in his muttering.

"There's something _wrong_ with that kid," she whispered to Bosco, not taking her eyes off the teenager.

"You mean _other_ than he shot me?"

"Shut up!" he rounded. "I won't tell you again—get over there." He started with the other hostages—terrified and less inclined to resist. "Sit down," was all it took. The shopkeeper—forty-something East European import—a mother and child—the toddler just old enough to know something really bad was happening—a suit—nipped in from across the road for his lunch—and an old lady, gripping her shopping basket like it might protect her—the five of them lined up by the counter like ducks in a shooting alley.

The radio came alive as the old lady was struggling to the floor; "Shots fired at 121 and King." Bosco and Faith looked at each other. The kid caught the address too—and their look.

"What?" he demanded. "What?"

"That's us—here—you. Somebody called it in. I need to answer that." When the kid said nothing, his mind racing, Faith ventured, "I'm going to answer, okay? Tell them there's nothing wrong—" hand to her radio when the kid found his voice again.

"No! Don't say anything—don't tell them anything."

She caught the look on Bosco's face—the mirror of her own—but before she could reason with the kid, Central burst back in, "All units—10-13, witness reports officer down at 121 and King." She held her breath against the sinking feeling, waiting for the flood of takers that came straight in—Davis and Sullivan first, then half the precinct—the kid, panic clearly in his eyes, looked torn between running now, before it was too late, and his gun.

He must have gone with the second—panic blinked away like it'd never been there at all. "Sit _down_," he snarled, pushing Faith roughly to the floor—catching movement behind him, he almost smiled. "Try me," revolver to Bosco's head.


	7. Closed Until Further Notice

Closed Until Further Notice

"Look—I already told you," the witness had to be a hooker—skirt so short it was more of a belt, make-up almost as plastic as the jacket—working out a wad of gum and her statement in turns. "I don't _know_—I dropped my keys in the gutter, didn't I?—I was _on my knees_ (god—and I ripped my tights—would you look at that?) when the gun went off—I didn't see nothing."

Sullivan had pulled up across the street from the Kwickmart, and they watched its closed façade from behind the car, ducked down in its cover.

"But you saw one of them on the ground, right?" he insisted. "Was it the man or woman?"

"I _told_ you—I don't _know_—god, don't you people _listen_?" the hooker lounged back against the car, inspecting her fingernails as if she found the situation tiresome, rattling off her story again like a shopping list. "I dropped my keys, the gun went off—I couldn't see for my car—when I look back I see a cop on the floor and a cop with their gun out—I couldn't see faces—" then a shrug, "and the shutters came down."

Ty stalled anything Sully was about to say (_how many cops did _she_ know with long hair that weren't women?_) with, "I'm going for a look," ducking across the street before Sully could do anything but watch him, concerned, over the bonnet of the RMP. Ty ran, head down, for each of the cars in the lot in turn, taking a look inside each—the hooker's blue Chevy, the squad car, a beat-up red Ford—trying to find a chink in the Kwickmart's armour to peer through.

A moment later he dropped down beside Sul and the hooker again. "Can't see in," he shook his head; then, "The Ford's got a child-seat in the back," he shrugged, his face saying, _but that doesn't mean_—as he looked back over at the store. "And it's definitely David—they must be inside."

Sul turned to the hooker, "How many people were inside? How many people d'you see in there?" at her blank expression, he tried again, "Was there a kid in there?" Nothing. This time a deliberate, "Was there a _kid_ in that red car?" But he'd already lost patience with her before, hand to her mouth, she grasped what he was saying, a horrified, "I…I—I don't know…I—"

He pulled at his radio and called in, scowling at the vacuous blond—_was_ she? The hair was probably fake, too—as he waited for Central to come back on his, "55 Charlie." Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sirens of another unit responding.

"Go ahead, Charlie."

"We've got a guy with a gun holding up the Kwickmart at 121 and King—number of hostages unknown."

His mood was hardly improved by being dismissed by the hot-shot ESU Lieutenant when he and his team turned up, and Sul stalked off to cool his heels with the Fire Department the other side of the hazard tape. Carlos, sat on the steps of his Bus, leapt to his feet. "Faith and Bosco—are they in there?" he asked, nodding towards the store. Sul only glared, getting a, "Are they okay?" at his back as he walked on past. To Ty, he tried, "What's the deal?" getting a more sympathetic response, but no more information—a shrugged, "I dunno," as they both looked at the knot of ESU officers and Swersky huddled around the phone they'd set up on the roof of a squad car—the hot-shot Lieutenant, receiver in hand, staring at the shop front intently—waiting for the guy inside to pick up—then pacing up and down, talking animatedly, but out of earshot—then a change in demeanour—the guy inside must've hung up—Sully all for striding over there and demanding to know what was happening before Ty's hand held him back.

"D'you _want_ to go back to looking for that damn kid?" his face asked—and Sul backed off, thinking aloud, "Don't give Swersky a reason to make us, huh?" getting a nod from his partner.

A noise like a gunshot had everyone's attention snap to the Kwickmart.

"Get him back," the ESU Lieutenant demanded, pointing unnecessarily at the shop front, receiver in hand. The technician beside him worked at her box of tricks in the tense silence, but straightened eventually, shaking her head. "Line's dead," she said, looking at the steel shutters. "Sounds like it might not be the only thing."


	8. Negotiate This

Negotiate This

The kid held the gun to Bosco's head much longer than was necessary, and then longer still. There was something disturbing about the calm after his panicked storm—like this time he just wouldn't _care_ about shooting a cop—and swallowing as he stared the kid out, it wasn't lost on Bosco that this time there could be no lucky escape.

Faith looked like she wanted to say something—anything—to keep the kid from being stupid—but was more afraid to set him off by saying the wrong thing.

In the end it was the phone ringing—scaring them all half to death—that broke the tension. It rang twice before the kid snatched a look over at it, and another three times before he pulled the gun and answered the phone—a collective release of breath from the hostages as he did.

"Yeah?" gun lowered, narrowing his eyes was all it took to dissuade the hostages from exchanging anything more than nervous looks. "No, I'm afraid he can't come to the phone right now—" Bosco managed to cover his response with a cough—and wince—but there was no mistaking the look that caught Faith's attention, scoffing, _is he selling Girl Scout cookies now?_

He didn't sound like a kid that'd just escaped a murder charge by blind luck. Faith's face said it all, _there's something _wrong_ with that kid_. "Excuse me, did I say he was dead? No, sir—but I don't want you to talk to him—well I'm sorry, that's all I have to say about it. No—the other Officer can't come to the phone either—look, I don't want any trouble—nobody's dead, what're you talking about? I think you've got your wires crossed, I really do. A witness? How can you have a _witness_ when you can't see in? You know, I'm not stupid, I can count—there's nobody missing from in here. You think _I'm_ lying? Well that's great negotiation—don't you have something _better_ to be doing than annoying me?" and he slammed the phone down, glaring at it, then the hostages—and then at the phone again when it immediately started ringing afresh.

The pretence of courtesy was gone when he snatched up the receiver the second time. "What? No. _No_—how about I kill one of them every time you don't listen to me—oh, you're _listening_ now, are you? Well listen to this: leave me _alone_!" When he slammed the phone down the hostages jumped, and the toddler—who'd been grizzling for over an hour, now—started up with a piercing wail. The more the mother tried to calm it, with terrified glances towards the teenage gunman between shushes, clutching it closer as if that might help, the more the kid read her fear and cried harder for it. Faith, the suit, shopkeeper and old lady all looked at her with pity—like they could sense the inevitable coming and were powerless to help—but the gunman was distracted by the phone, ringing incessantly. It had him on edge.

"I don't want to talk to them," he insisted in an undertone, shaking his head vigorously. Faith and Bosco exchanged a look—both had the uneasy feeling it was nobody in the Kwickmart that the kid was talking to. "No no no—this was never s'posed to happen—it was all your fault—what d'you mean _I_ pulled the trigger—you _loaded_ the frickin' gun you…you _crazy_—you _are_ crazy, man—you're totally crazy. _Christ_, look at this mess, man—it wasn't _me_, it's not my fault, it's not." All the while his hand was hovering over the receiver, a battle of wills going on between him—_pick it up, talk to them, get out of this mess_—and himself—_get out—get out somehow—you've got a _gun_, for God's sake—_use _it_…

Something gave in the end—he grabbed the ringing phone and wrenched the chord from the wall, hurling it across the floor, yelling, "I don't want to talk to you!"

For a second Faith thought he was going to stamp on it, too—red in the face with a frightening rage—but he swept his arm across the counter instead, sending display stands flying—the hostages cowering, hands covering their heads as merchandise rained down among them. The cash register stilled his temper, finally—crashing onto the floor behind the counter like a gun going off, the stunned silence in its wake ringing with loose change.

For a long time nobody dared move—_breathe_, even—save for the toddler's crying that came in fits and starts of blubbing and full gusto bawling. The mother looked at her wit's end. Bosco's pounding head could take no more, and he snapped, "Would you shut that kid up before I do it for you?" earning him a hissed slap-down from Faith—coming straight back with, "_They're_ scared? I'm the one that got _shot_—"

"You know what, Bosco?" Faith'd had enough of her partner for one day. "If I hear another word out of you, I'll shoot you myself—and you can be damn sure I won't be aiming for your vest."

The teenager laughed nervously—and regretted it instantly, an irritated, "Go and argue with yourself again, why don't you," from Bosco before Faith could stop him, glaring her anger at him instead. He scowled right back at her for the next hour, bad mood and headache alike simmering while the kid sat, back to the counter, muttering nervously and eyeing the exits as he toyed with his revolver—flipping out the chamber, spinning it, and sending it home, over and over, ignoring Faith's efforts to negotiate.

"So how d'you plan on getting out of this?" Bosco demanded, patience finally exhausted—pretending to have missed Faith's look, _don't do this, Bosco_. "You think you're gonna walk out of here? You really think they'll just _let you go_? No, don't answer that—people as stupid as you _should_ be shot. That's what they're gonna do, you know—I mean, they think you killed a cop, they'll shoot you given half a chance—don't think I'm kidding you on this—half the precinct's out there—they're not gonna bother asking questions." Bosco had the kid's attention now—a nervous swallow betraying him—while Faith looked like she wasn't sure which of them was the more insane. "Why don't I go pick up my gun and make it painless for you? Those guys out there, they're probably thinking it'd be fun to drill your gut, make it go slowly—you understand what I'm saying here?" the kid was shaking now, looking round desperately for a way out. "Or how about I do it with _your_ gun? Agree to call it suicide and save me a mountain of paperwork—d'you have any _idea_ the number of forms I have to fill in every time I discharge my gun?"

Faith was pretty sure she knew which of them she was more _angry_ with now—Bosco taunting a crazy teenager with a gun, like some little kid playing tough-guys at recess. For a heart-stopping moment she thought the game was up when Bosco made to stand—wincing—but the kid's, "Don't move!" sounded desperate and unconvincing. He was still armed, though—and waving the gun not just at her partner as Bosco advanced. _I swear, Bosco—if he doesn't kill you for this, I will_—heart in her mouth as she watched, helpless to stop him.

"Stay back—I'll shoot—I've got a _gun_, man!" Faith caught herself thinking _she'd_ be afraid, too—a crazy jerk like Bosco coming straight for her on some kind of mission to get himself killed—

"You're a coward—you're not gonna shoot me. Give me the damn gun—_give_ it to me—" he grabbed it, wrenching it from the kid's hand and throwing it aside, before twisting the kid's arm behind his back and slamming him facedown onto the counter—the concussion it gave the kid doing a better job of restraining any fight left in him than Bosco could have managed—grabbing at the counter to steady himself a second, head and ribs protesting violently.

At Faith's thundercloud of a look, already on her feet and cuffing the kid, he glared, "_What?_ Did you _want_ to sit here all night?" but didn't give her a chance to answer—waving her off with a look that said, _no—don't bother_, feeling her blood pressure rising behind him as he recovered his gun and the revolver from the floor, ignoring the wannabe gunman's snivelling, "You're hurting me," blood running freely from his nose.

The front door of the Kwickmart opened inwards, the steel door beyond opened out. He hammered on the steel and yelled, "This is Officer Boscorelli—we're coming out," hoping it was enough not to get him shot before inching the door open a crack and tossing the revolver out ahead of him, just to be sure.


	9. Collar

Collar

At the yell, everyone's attention snapped to the doorway, Bosco and then a straggle of hostages spilling out into the parking lot—old lady, mother and baby, a suit and what must have been the shop keeper, looking shaken but unharmed.

"Oh God, Yokas—" Sul and Ty exchanged a look, Sully rushing forward to grab Bosco with an urgent, "Faith?" _tell me she's not dead in there—_"Where's Faith?"

"Bagging up the perp," Bosco scowled at what he obviously thought was a dumb question, helping the old lady to a seat on the Bus steps.

"Hey—you hurt? You're bleeding—" Ty caught the trickle of blood from under his hairline.

Sul, distracted, couldn't take his eyes from the Kwikmart, "Witness said one of you got shot—" staring like he wouldn't be convinced it wasn't true until he saw Faith for himself.

"Yeah," Bosco clapped Sul on the shoulder as he headed back towards the store, finger poked through the bullet hole in his shirt.

"Holy crap—you okay?" Ty choked, but this time Bosco ignored the stupid question, calling out "You got it? You need a hand?" to Faith as she wrestled the handcuffed perp out through the doorway.

"Yeah, Bosco, I got it," she glared, but any argument was stalled by Ty's, "Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me," when he got a look at the perp. Bosco stalked away, done with Faith's bad mood.

"Simon Lockyer, you're a hard man to find," Sully laughed, shaking his head.

"You _know_ him?" she frowned, and then, "Tell me he's schizophrenic." She left unsaid, _and wasn't just doing all that to piss me off_—she didn't have to say the words, they were written across her face.

Ty nodded, "I think there's a very good chance of it," and catching Sul's doubt, added, "Oh c'mon—four completely different kids that all look exactly like him? And the Weed—I mean, I trust the kid at the Wharf, and I'm pretty sure the priest wasn't lying to us…"

"So that just leaves the mother?" Sul finished the train of thought, considering it before a resigned, "Guess it'd explain a few things."

From Faith, "What d'you want him for? Has he got history, or what?"

"Only if you count yanking my chain all day," Sul scowled, then, "He _was_ a misper—but," he nodded towards the Kwikmart, "I guess now he's wanted for attempted murder of a police officer, not to mention firearms offences, and possession." He looked over at Bosco, stood talking to the Lt, and shook his head at the close call it'd been, "He's one lucky son of a bitch."

Faith followed his gaze, but her eyes were narrowed and Sully hardly needed to ask to guess Bosco'd been acting like an ass again. She muttered something about, "I _swear_—if he ever—" but Swersky caught her look and headed over, silencing whatever she'd been about to say.

The Lt nodded back the way he came, "He do anything stupid—anything I should know about?"

Faith caught herself before saying, "Only playing the stupid hero," letting it all out with a breath instead, rubbing her forehead. "Nah," she shook her head. "He did good." Swerksy eyed her for a moment, like he thought she might change her mind, but when she didn't, said, "Well, he's going to Mercy to get checked out—"

"Me and Sul can take the kid—if you wanna ride with him," Ty put in.

At the look on her face that said she'd still rather punch him, Sul barked a laugh, "We'll take the kid anyhow, we had first dibs—unless you _want_ him. More trouble than he's worth, though, if you ask me."

"Think I'll drive," she said, handing over custody to Ty.

"You gonna be okay on your own?" he asked, caught by the thought as he pushed the kid into the back seat.Out of Swersky's hearing by now, Faith laughed, throwing a look towards the Bus, "He's in day care now, the rest of the shift'll be calm and quiet."

"I don't know how she puts up with him," Sul laughed, starting up the car. "What say we go pick up Mom on the way to the House," he suggested as they pulled away. "I've a mind to do her for wasting police time."


End file.
